The Boy Who (Barely) Lived
by Manic-Catastrophe
Summary: Harry is a very, very abused young wizard. He has erratic and temperamental magic, a scarlet house that is green with envy, no friends, and teachers that expect far more from him than he is capable of. This is not a Snape adopts Harry story (overused!), very jealous Ron and Hermione, no evil characters (except Snape).


Chapter 1: The Boy Who Barely Lived

Harry Potter woke to the sound of Aunt Petunia's footsteps above his head. Stifling a groan of pain, he uncurled and sat up. He tried to take a deep breath, but was thwarted by a concerning pain from his rib cage. His hands, trained by experience, did not fly reflexively to the wounded area. Instead, he simply gripped one of Dudley's old shirts, twisting it tightly instead of hissing in pain. That was a Rule: Unwanted Freaks don't make unwanted noise. He got to his feet just as his Aunt's bony knuckles rapped on the door.

"Freak! Get up!" She screeched. Her voice always seemed to burrow into his skull, often giving him a headache, and exacerbating one the he might already have.

"Alright, Aunt Petunia. I'm up." He spoke just loudly enough to be heard, not speaking more than was necessary. He heard the door being unlocked, and soon enough it was flung open. He winced at the sudden glare, and then at his Aunt's voice.

"Well? I'm waiting!" She pointed at the kitchen, and as Harry walked past, she grabbed a fistful of his unruly, raven hair. "Listen to me, you worthless mooch. Today is Dudley's birthday, and if you DARE mess ANYTHING up, you won't even be ABLE to wish you'd never been born. UNDERSTAND?"

Eyes scrunched up pain, he choked out a "Yes, Aunt Petunia" before finally being released. He walked down the hallway into the kitchen, surprised to find it devoid of life. A small sticky note was on the stovetop that contained what he was to make for meals, his chores for the day, and how what food he was to eat that day. The final point was larger than usual.

_One single piece of bread and a spoonful of last week's rice? They're feeling pretty generous today._ He thought this with not a single bit of sarcasm. _And two meals in as many days? Wow, what did I do to deserve that? I thought that worthless freaks got one meal every three days._ Glancing at the list again, he was pleasantly surprised at what he was to make for breakfast. Eggs, bacon, and potatoes.

Harry got out the skillet that he was allowed to use, arms wobbling under the weight. He set it on the stove and got it heating. The package of bacon was in the refrigerator, as well as the eggs. From experience, he cooked the bacon first, allowing the grease to mix with the eggs. As it cooked, the grease popped, splattering on him multiple times. He put the bacon on a plate and set it aside, getting to work on the eggs. The salty aroma of the meat permeated the room, and he soon regretted breathing even more: the smell was enticing. His stomach gave a liquid rumble. Fortunately, no one was in the room to hear it.

The eggs were nearly finished when Vernon Dursley entered the room, his footfalls shaking the floor. "BOY!"

Harry turned around quickly to see Uncle Vernon's fist coming straight towards his head. He turned just enough so that it hit the side of his head instead of his face. The force of the blow threw his thin frame back against the stove. Seemingly satisfied, Vernon took the plate of bacon to the table. Recovering quickly, Harry returned his attention to the pan full of eggs. They smelled good, and they looked done, so he put them in a bowl and started on the potatoes. The eggs did not remain still for long, as the Dursley's whale of a son had entered. Harry heard his cousin's greedy sniffing, and he heard the noise of delight that Dudley made.

Of course, he had no idea what the eggs would actually taste like, he had never eaten any. Nor the bacon for that matter, although he had licked some grease off of his arm once. A few minutes later, that arm had been broken as a punishment. The potatoes needed some olive oil to cook properly, but getting it required walking dangerously close to the table. Steeling himself for any blows or insults, he scurried past. The insults were not long in coming.

"Look at him, Dudders," Vernon nudged his son, "Scurrying like the filthy rat he is." Harry simply retrieved the bottle of oil and tried to return to the stove. Somehow, he managed to get in the way of a rather large foot and tripped. Fear flashed through his mind, all too aware of the consequences if he actually broke the bottle. He caught himself on his elbows, ignoring the ominous crack that arose from the left one. As he got to his feet, he tested bending it, relieved that it wasn't broken.

A few minutes later, the potatoes were done and in a bowl too. He took the used dishes from the table, receiving another blow to his right arm this time. When the washing-up was done, he did not even have time to breathe a sigh of relief. "Alright you lazy, worthless abomination! Get to work!"

"Yes sir." Harry exited into the back yard. The rosebushes needed trimming, as did the hedges. He retrieved the trimming tools, blunt with age and use. There were new tools in the shed, but those were for Aunt Petunia when she wanted to care for her garden. Harry was only supposed to cut the thorns off of the bushes. Without gloves. The sun shone down upon him, burning his skin. He was soon wet with sweat and not even halfway done. Under the pretense of watering the bushes, he retrieved the hose and turned it on.

Halfway covered by the rosebush, he snuck a few mouthfuls of water and immediately felt guilty. _Freaks don't get to eat or drink without permission. _It was already too late to rectify his mistake, so he simply redoubled his efforts at taming the thorny bushes. By the time he was finished, the tips of his fingers were red with blood and stinging from the numerous holes. He glanced in through the window, checking the time. There were still three hours left until Dudley's party, and he was about half an hour behind schedule.

_Come on you useless slug, get moving!_ He mentally chided himself for taking a break, and instead trotted over to the kitchen door, knocking on it once. After a few minutes, Aunt Petunia came to the door and narrowed her eyes at him.

"Oh, so you're done?" She walked off the porch and inspected his work. Roaring in anger, she pulled something off of a stem near the bottom of the bush. "I specifically remember writing down that you were to de-thorn the bushes." She held up a long, sharp thorn. "This is not de-thorned." Harry did not respond, merely hung his head. Suddenly, he gasped in pain. She had stabbed his arm with the one forgotten thorn. Glancing at his arm, he saw that it went in all the way, requiring him to dig around in the wound for it. "And you can forget about eating today. You're already fat enough as it is."

Harry waited just long enough for her to go back inside before he sprang into action. There was no time at all to waste on getting the thorn out of his arm. Three hours later, the boy knocked on the kitchen door once again. The lawn was freshly mown and the porch swept, the windowsills cleaned and all the plant watered. She was about to let him inside when he heard the telltale sniffing. "Get down on the grass, freak. You smell awful."

He stood under the spray of the hose, the water on full blast at the highest pressure nozzle. She aimed directly at the places she knew it hurt: his ribs, his arms, his head, and his stomach. Harry said nothing, as this was a usual occurrence. When his dog-bath was finished, Petunia told him to stay outside until he was dry. That took only a few minutes in the hot July sun. He let himself into the kitchen, stomach rumbling again at the wonderful smells inside. "FREAK! DO NOT MAKE THOSE UNGRATEFUL NOISES!" Vernon's shout was deafening. Harry saw the exact shade of purple his uncle's face was, and wisely retreated to his cupboard.

Vernon followed him, removing his belt as he came. "BOY! YOU DO NOT RUN FROM ME! UNDERSTAND?"

"Y-yes sir."

"GOOD! Now, to make sure you remember…" _Crack!_ Harry screamed as the belt caught his face, drawing blood. He cut it off as soon as it came out, but the damage was done. "YOU!" _Crack! _"DO!" _Crack!_ "NOT!" _Crack! _"SCREAM!" _Crack! Crack! CRACK!_ Harry had curled into a ball, allowing the blows to fall on his back. The supple leather soon tore his thin, frayed t-shirt and started drawing blood. Harry bit his forearm to keep from screaming and tasted blood. After a seemingly indeterminable period of time, the blows ceased falling and he heard the door slam shut. Darkness overtook him soon after.

He woke hours later, breathing shallowly so as to not break the new scabs on his back. From the sounds of it, the party was still in full swing. Harry uncurled slowly, muscles protesting from being stuck in one position for so long. His forearm hurt badly from where he had bitten it, and he could not even begin to count the new lashes on his back. He was terribly thirsty and even hungrier. His face was swollen too, and stiff from the dried blood. By some miracle, his glasses had managed to stay undamaged.

_Oh, no! Tomorrow's school and I don't have any way to hide this! And Dudley's homework isn't done!_ He had no way of getting it done either. Fortunately, Dudley had pretty good grades so one missed assignment shouldn't hurt Harry. His own homework never got done, and he would literally be killed if he did better than Dudley on anything. Stretching out as much as he could on the hard floor, he closed his eyes and entered a trance-like state where his body rested but his mind still was functioning. He was brought out of his peace by the door opening.

"Yeah, he's still in here!" A cruel voice sneered. Form the sounds of it, the owner was Piers Polkiss. Raucous laughter and a scattering of "Yeah!"s, "Get 'im"s and other noises of assent followed his remark. The boy dragged Harry to his feet and down the hall, through the kitchen, and into the backyard. "Okay, listen up freak. We've got a new game to play." Harry groaned at the announcement. "Malcolm's mum just got back from vacation in Mexico, and they have a fun tradition there called piñata." Harry's eyes widened, as he knew what it was.

"No…" He whispered, seeing where the train of thought led.

"Oh, so you don't want Dudley's birthday to be perfect? He wanted to do that, you know." Piers knew exactly what went on behind the doors of 4 Privet Drive, and he found it hilarious. Harry gave an involuntary twitch, as if he wanted to run, but stayed rooted to the spot, paralyzed by fear of what Vernon would do to him. The rest of the boys came out, Malcolm carrying a length of rope. They tied it around Harry's chest, leaving his arms free. The rope went over a tree limb and Harry was hoisted up easily, seeing as he weighed barely fifty pounds.

It seemed as if the piñata game was only a pretense, as they neither blindfolded Dudley, nor spun him around. The stick they used was actually Vernon's punishment cane. Dudley stepped forward, a cruel smile on his face. There was nowhere Harry could run. The cane whistled through the air and landed with a resounding _crack!_ on Harry's shin. He twisted and jerked, but they had bound his hands and legs. He couldn't even scream; they had stuffed a length of rope in his mouth. He lost track of how long the beating went on for, but at the end of it, he could not walk and barely breathe.

Every inch of his body hurt, with exception to his face. Only half of that hurt. Eventually, it stopped and he opened his eyes. The four boys were sweaty and panting. The cane was red with blood. _My blood…_ He was lying on the grass, unable to move. Slowly, ever so slowly, the area around him grew dark and he heard the boys leave. Eventually, he lost consciousness, his final thought _But I need to get inside to clean up…_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Alright, so I don't quite have this entire story planned out yet. I can tell you this much though: Very, very abused Harry (Duh!), and NO NO NO! Snape will not be nice EVER! Besides, that plot is waaaaay overused anyways. No, I'm not going to do any homo pairings (want to remain slightly canon) or really any romantic pairings at all. Ron is not going to be nice; I want to make Harry completely isolated before he can even begin to recover. Not for the faint of heart (or weak of stomach).**


End file.
